Page 24 of Beautifully Broken

Prologue

Caleb

Two years ago

The lilies were too strong. Too sweet. Too thick. Like grief disguised as perfume. The kind that coated the inside of my throat, made it impossible to breathe without tasting loss.

I sat stiff as a board in the front right pew, caught between my mother and Emily, who’d been my best friend since middle school. Neither of them spoke. Neither had to. I could feel them on either side of me, like bookends trying to keep me from toppling.

It wasn’t working.

The church was warm, almost stifling, and even though it was barely noon, the weight in the room felt heavy and old—like it had been collecting since the moment I picked out a casket I couldn’t afford for a woman I couldn’t imagine being without.

My palms were damp. My back was tense. The edges of the funeral program in my lap had gone soft with sweat. It was bent now, creased right down the middle from where my thumb wouldn’t stop running the same line over and over again.

I hadn’t cried yet. Not really. A few tears in the shower.

That tight feeling in the back of my throat that came and went like a cough I couldn’t clear.

But mostly… I was numb. The kind of numbness that felt like I was standing outside my own body, watching it go through the motions while my soul curled up somewhere deep and refused to come out.

I kept my eyes on the casket.

White.

God, she would’ve hated that. Too proper.

Too stiff. Too not her. Hannah liked color.

Wildflowers. Anything with a little chaos.

I hadn’t argued when they asked me to pick.

Couldn’t. I barely remembered the conversation, just nodded when someone said "simple and elegant.

" And now here it was, sitting under the fractured light of stained glass windows, draped in red and gold and soft blue.

Sunlight spilled over the glossy surface like it was holy. Like the world was still beautiful.

It made me want to throw something.

She was twenty-five. I was twenty-six. And a fucking widower.

The word didn’t feel like mine. It clung to me anyway. A label that wrapped tight around my chest every time someone looked at me with too much softness in their eyes. I didn’t want their softness. Didn’t want their casseroles or their sympathy.

I wanted her.

Her laugh in the morning. Her shampoo on my pillow.

The sound of her dancing barefoot in the kitchen just to make me smile.

The coffee mug with her lipstick print still in the dishwasher.

The hair tie still looped around the gearshift in my truck.

The last text she sent— on my way home! —still unread because opening it would make it too real.

The pastor’s voice faded in and out. I heard my name once.

Hannah’s more. Words like beloved and taken too soon echoed off the stained wood rafters like well-meaning lies.

Across the aisle, her family sat stone still.

Her mother clutched a shredded tissue like it was the only thing keeping her upright.

Her father stared at the altar like if he looked long enough, she might sit up.

Her grandparents sat small and quiet, like grief had caved them in from the inside out.

And then there was her brother. Nate.

I hadn’t spoken to him since the hospital. Since the beep of the monitor went flat and I’d collapsed into a chair that didn’t feel real. We hadn’t talked because I couldn’t. Because I knew if I looked Nate in the eye and saw everything broken back at me, it might kill what was left.

He sat rigid. Pale. His jaw ticked so hard I was afraid it might crack .

When our gazes almost touched, I looked away. Not out of guilt. Out of survival.

I was barely keeping myself together. I couldn’t carry someone else’s avalanche too.

The funeral program slipped from my fingers and hit the floor with a soft slap. Her photo stared up at me. Windblown dark hair. Big smile. Mid-laugh over something I couldn’t remember anymore.

God.

I wanted to remember. I wanted to rewind. Just for a second. Just long enough to say goodbye.

The scent of lilies rolled through the air again, curling in my throat like poison, and my stomach turned. I swallowed hard. Tried to breathe through my nose. Told myself I was fine. That this was just what you did when your whole world died and the rest of it kept spinning anyway.

The accident wasn’t anyone’s fault. Rain. A sharp curve. A moment too late. No one to blame. Which meant no one to hate. Which somehow made it worse.

The pastor said her name again and I flinched. My fingers clenched. The pew creaked beneath me.

The room moved. People stood. I followed, slow and mechanical, knees locking as I rose. The sound of shifting wood and soft fabric filled the air. Pallbearers moved forward. Nate among them. I was supposed to follow with the rest of her family, but my body wouldn’t move.

I couldn’t look away.

Couldn’t leave her.

The light still danced across her casket like some kind of blessing. Like the world hadn’t gotten the memo that she was gone. That everything good and real had been buried in that box .

And then—

A hand on my shoulder. Light. Emily. I didn’t look at her.

Couldn’t. But she didn’t let go. She didn’t tug.

Didn’t speak. Just slid her fingers down my arm and laced them with mine.

Solid and sure and still breathing. The only thing tethering me to this earth when everything else felt like it had floated away.

I let her. Because it was that or drown.

I don’t remember the drive. Just the wind at the cemetery. The sky, bright and blue like it had no right to be. Then the next moment, I was standing in the entryway of our house, Emily behind me, the door clicking shut like a heartbeat.

My parents had been right behind us. Part of me wished they’d stay away. I couldn’t handle the sadness in my father’s eyes or the way my mother kept stroking my hair, asking if I was okay.

No. I wasn’t okay.

Hannah was gone.

It was dark inside. Still. The kind of still that settled in the walls. That curled into corners and made dust feel heavier. No lights were on. The curtains hadn’t been opened in days. The scent of lavender and coconut—her scent—still hung in the air, stubborn and soft.

I didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.

A meow echoed from upstairs.

I blinked slowly. Looked toward the stairs.

Nacho stood at the top step, orange fur glowing like flame in the shadows. He tilted his head, tail swishing, as if waiting for someone else to walk through the door.

When I didn’t move, he padded down slowly, pausing halfway to glance over his shoulder. Still waiting.

He reached the bottom, walked to my feet, and let out a soft sound before nudging my shin.

I hit the floor like gravity had just remembered I existed .

My knees cracked. My hands hit hardwood. And Nacho, without hesitation, jumped into my lap and curled against my chest, purring like it might heal something.

That was it.

The sob tore free without warning. Loud and ugly and real. It shook my whole body. Scraped out from a place that had been holding it in too long.

I covered my face, gasping. Broken. Let it pour out like it had been waiting.

I didn’t hear her footsteps, but I felt them.

Emily. Dropping to the floor behind me. Wrapping her arms around my shoulders the way my mother used to when I was small and scared and didn’t know what else to do but cry.

She didn’t say anything. Didn’t try to fix it. Just held on. Rocked me gently. Stayed.

And me, clinging to a cat and everything I couldn’t say, I let myself fall apart.

Because Hannah was gone.

And I didn’t know who the hell I was without her.